


Pressure Point

by beaubete



Category: James Bond (Craig movies), Skyfall (2012) - Fandom
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, M/M, situational dub-con
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-27
Updated: 2015-01-27
Packaged: 2018-03-09 09:23:35
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,864
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3244469
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/beaubete/pseuds/beaubete
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>He’s shy.  It’s cute—they’re always a little shy, these scrawny little boffins the Office sends their way, always pressed down by the weight of their jobs on slumped shoulders, always pinched and tight.</i>
</p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p>Bond gets a lively one on his table, and they work out more than just a few stiff muscles.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Pressure Point

**Author's Note:**

> This fic is not in any way intended to represent the reality of the massage therapist profession. It does not represent the reality of that industry, and is intended for entertainment purposes only. No offense of misrepresentation is intended.
> 
> This fic does include some situational dub-con. Please see notes at the end for a more thorough, if slightly spoilery, explanation.
> 
> As always, my thanks go to everyone who's had a look at this fic along the way, but especially to littleowls3 for support through many, many, _many_ rounds of edits!

He’s shy.  It’s cute—they’re always a little shy, these scrawny little boffins the Office sends their way, always pressed down by the weight of their jobs on slumped shoulders, always pinched and tight.  Bond was prepping the room when he heard the boy’s knock, and he watches from the corner of his eye as he rolls on the sides of his feet like a nervous child.  Oh, but this one’s a meek, mild thing, isn’t he?  So sweet.

Bond folds the sheet over the edge of the table until it’s naval-precise, Christmas package corners and clean white, then ducks back, taking the clipboard the boy is guarding himself with and offering his hand.  “Bond,” he says.  The boy’s skin is cool and sleek as water in his own.

“Adam,” the boy says back, and Bond knows it’s not his name—he’s had four Adams from the Office this week—but he grins anyway.  Today’s Adam is slim, long limbs wrapped in the ugliest fawn jumper he’s ever seen, even if the plaid trousers do lovely things to his arse.  Most striking is the pile of hair on Adam’s head, windswept waves that are almost curls falling into cunningly sharp hazel green eyes.  There’s no doubt about it, this Adam’s a heartbreaker.

“Adam,” Bond repeats, bussing Adam’s knuckles with his lips.  “First time?”  Adam nods, then shakes his head.  Bond grins wolfishly.  He turns his back for Adam to get his kit off and takes a moment to sift through the oils available—“Sandalwood?” he asks over his shoulder.  “Teak?  Frangipani?”  Adam doesn’t answer and he selects the rich, mellow burr of woods mixed with just enough spice to titillate—before pulling over the oil warmer and dosing it with just enough to lift the scent into the air.  Bond turns back.  Adam is still dressed.  

“Well?” Bond asks, gesturing vaguely at the clothes.

“Well?” Adam repeats.

“Clothes?  I can’t do it with them on,” Bond reminds him, and Adam’s cheeks shoot through with pink.  “I mean, I could, but it wouldn’t be as effective.”

“You could?”  And Adam’s shyness is honestly adorable, hope writ across his face in wide green eyes.

“Let me rephrase: it wouldn’t work at all.  Sorry,” Bond tells him flippantly, turning his back again to ostensibly sort the massage oils again.  “Any allergies, sensitivities to fragrance?”

The quiet sound of a zip, long—the jumper.  “Isn’t that on my form?” Adam asks, and Bond glances at the clipboard he’s set to the side.  The handwriting is neat and crisp and absolutely retentive.  No wonder Adam’s here—his ‘o’s are as near to perfectly round as they can get, wobbling with strain at the bottom right each time.  Interesting.  

“Of course,” Bond says.  It is; it’s just on the back of the first page and he doesn’t feel like turning it to read, since it would mean wiping his hands again.  “Humor me.”

Adam is quiet, and Bond chuckles; he can almost see that indignant stare being leveled at his back.  “Nothing floral,” Adam says finally.  “No capsicum, no menthol.”

“Woods?  Resin, cedar, sandalwood?” Bond asks.  He pauses, licks his lips.  “Musk?”

“Nothing too sweet,” Adam says decisively.  “I’ll have a headache if it’s too thick or heavy.  What you’ve got now is fine.”

“Good.  It’s my favorite.”  He’s given Adam enough time to undress; turning, Adam is down to his pants and socks, shifting from foot to foot uneasily.  He’s surprised by the thin strength, the build to those shoulders that was hidden by the bulky fabric.  Under his appraising gaze, Adam blinks, looking away.  “I work best if you’re nude,” Bond says bluntly.  Adam shivers.  “And no socks.”

“My feet get cold easily,” Adam complains, but he dutifully peels his socks off and sets them aside with the rest of his clothes, folded with sharp creases.  His toes wiggle on the bare wood; he doesn’t move to take off his pants.  Bond offers him a towel for modesty, but Adam stares at it defiantly.  Bond grins despite himself.

“On the table.”

“Up?  Down?”

“Down, to start.” Bond tells him, and Adam is obedient, slipping onto the table with a lithe grace that draws Bond’s eye to the gorgeous play of muscle along his back.  He moves like something liquid, all but—he reaches a hand to palm the trapezius and Adam jerks nervously in his grip, wincing as he pulls his neck from Bond’s clutch.  “I think we’ll start here.  You must be in agony,” he says, and with a distrustful look Adam sinks onto the table.  It’s not a particularly auspicious start, Bond has to admit.  “Here,” he says, a warning that he’s going to touch, before gently rearranging Adam’s body into place.  He can see the tension, the distended muscle and stiff joints, even before he gets started.  Bond pauses, looks at the form—half an hour.  He chuckles quietly.  That’s not going to happen.

Adam jumps under his fingertips when Bond touches him again, a nervous twitch that’s typical to the folks Vauxhall Cross sends their way.  He suspects he’s come on the word of a past client; a fleeting customer, she came in ready to vibrate out of her skin and left purring.  She’d called herself Eve, and Bond smiles at the good Christian names—unoriginal, all of them.  

He warms the massage lotion in the well of his palm.  Bond lets him hear the sound of his hands as he slicks them together before touching Adam’s skin.  It’s soft, a bit chilled, and he lets himself toy with it, accustoming himself with the slide of his palms against Adam’s flesh, judging the spring and bounce of it.  Still youthful, not yet destroyed by caffeine and smoking and overwork.  He’s resilient.

Adam makes a soft sound as Bond picks out a cord of knotted, nearly cramping muscle and traces it firmly with the ball of his thumb.  It’s firm, enough that Bond can tell it’s sore, and he makes a note of it before skimming on to assess.  There’s hours of work here, best done in gentle phases, but he doesn’t have that luxury; he pushes the flat of his palms on either side of Adam’s spine and Adam sighs beneath him, melting a bit.  He pushes gently until he can hear the vertebra crackling and Adam’s fingers are curling ecstatically around the edges of the table.

“Christ, I should pay you double just for that,” Adam murmurs into the face rest and Bond laughs.

“Have you thought about a chiropractor?” he teases gently as he brushes the heel of his hand over the knobs of spine in a soothing caress.  The ribs beneath him shake with quiet laughter.

“I’m requisitioning you as a department resource.  What’s your security level?” Adam asks, and Bond’s brow goes up.  Not your run of the mill Office boffin, then.  King boffin?

“You couldn’t afford me,” Bond tells him confidently.

“You’re probably right,” Adam sighs.  He goes quiet but for soft, appreciative sounds, then: “You’ve got hands like meat tenderisers.”

“Flatterer,” Bond tells him.  It’s true, though—he digs his fingertips into silky skin and Adam goes more and more lax, dripping like melted jelly as he begins to droop over the edges of the table.  “Stay up there.”

“I’m trying.”

Bond laughs, then gently coaxes out an arm.  Brisk rubbing at the upper arm, then lifting to follow the paths of tension straight down the pit to the ticklish tops of the ribs and back; Adam turns to peer at him through slitted eyes.  Bond smiles back cheerily.  “Don’t tickle me,” Adam threatens.

“I wouldn’t dream of it.”  It’s true.  Instead, he slides the arm through his slick hands, then thinks better; fetching more cream from the tube, he rubs again, this time catching on the forearm to work it loose.  Adam’s skin is a dream, an even, creamy pale that looks like it might tan beautifully if he were only to see the sun.  His skin moves easily over the muscle, and his hands are large, neat, square.  Bond runs each finger through his own and scratches at the secret nerve endings in the palm, watching Adam’s fingers twitch and curl around the sensation.

“That’s—” Adam protests.  Bond knows what he means: it’s not quite ticklish, not totally pleasant.  Sensitive.  He repeats the move on the other side and Adam’s fingers curl there, too.  He works his way back up the arm to the shoulder, and this time when he touches the trapezius, now both sides at once with firm palms, Adam doesn’t jump.  Doesn’t recoil, doesn’t freeze, just sinks into the table with—yes.  He hears it: the first low groan of actual pleasure.  It sparks on his skin, enough to heat him through for a fraction of a second.  He digs his thumbs into the nape by the hairline, rubs tiny circles hard into the tender skin, and watches Adam ride the chemical relaxation his body is doping him with down into the fuzzy warm haze.  Those long, square fingers curl again and Bond backs off slowly—erogenous, then.  Adam’s cheeks are flushed.

“Isn’t it?” Bond asks him softly, and Adam’s lost, eyes unfocused as he hums in agreement.  Bond spares a moment to rub the earlobes before moving on, and Adam makes a soft, happy sound.

There’s a hiss of pain as Bond begins to work on Adam’s back, but when he lightens his touch Adam arches into it, fingers curling against the edge of the table.  “Harder?” Adam asks, and Bond can feel it in his cock.  He imagines this beautifully responsive boy in his bed and grinds down with the heel of his hand; Adam whimpers and stills as the muscle gives up its tension beneath Bond’s touch.

“Tell me if it hurts,” Bond reminds him.

“Feels good,” Adam murmurs, already sinking under again.  “I like the pain.”

He can’t be real, Bond decides.  “Do you?” he asks quietly, easing down the center of Adam’s back with thumbs and palms.  The soft groan isn’t surprising, but the want in his voice is.  Bond wonders how long it’s been since Adam has had that kind of relief, too.  He’s breathing fast under Bond’s touch, and when Bond skims his hand down to skirt at the edges of his pants, the breathing quickens.  Bond skips over them to the left foot, cupping the delicate ankle in both hands before rolling it gently.  Adam twists to peer at him.

The first hard press in the center of an arch nearly brings him off the table.  Bond chuckles, sliding his thumb higher to push the pressure out of the foot’s delicate curves; Adam’s toes flex in reflex and Bond gently separates them, kneading at the ball of his foot that’s thick with tension.  “A lot of walking?” he asks idly.  Adam doesn’t respond, just arches his foot into Bond’s hand like a needy cat.  Bond obediently continues, sweeping up over the ankle before moving on to repeat the procedure on the other foot.  The tendons are flexing at the back of his knees, and Bond sympathises.  He does, but Adam’s need to keep himself from squirming is undoing all of his hard work.  He pats Adam’s thigh gently but brusquely.  “Relax.  You were doing so well earlier.”

“It’s—” Adam’s pause is telling and he knows it, flushing up the backs of his ears and down his neck between his shoulders.  “—difficult.”

“Hard,” Bond corrects, and he knows his grin is predatory.  “It’s hard.  But oh, it’s so rewarding.”

His touch is chaste now, careful on the backs of Adam’s thighs as his legs cord and relax.  Adam’s squirming beneath him, slick skin smooth and sliding in his hands.  Bond focuses on a knot, releasing the tense muscle just as it goes slack, then skips the pants again to rub the curl of the small of Adam’s back, where arousal and frustration are beginning to draw him tight again.

“Flip to your back,” Bond tells him, and it takes him a moment to obey.  There’s a hot flush on his cheeks, a spill of red interest down his chest from the edges of his collarbones to the center between his nipples.  Adam’s breath is quick now, his chest lifting with air and drawing Bond’s eye to the inevitable—Adam’s cock is half-hard, easily visible in the soft mound of his pants.  A hand snakes down to adjust it, laying it along the crease of a leg until the raised ridge is no longer crumpled and demure; Bond glances up and catches just the glimmer of fever-bright green under Adam’s long lashes.  He’s watching him.

He starts at Adam’s feet.  From this angle, he can catch the fine bones across the top, work them gently until they no longer feel like elastic bands waiting to snap.  They move a little under his hands, and he slides his thumbs along the prominent veins across the top to take each ankle in hand.  The bones are fine, delicate, and Bond wishes he were coaxing them over his shoulder.  Instead, Adam watches through slitted eyes as he plants them on the table a shoulders’ width apart.  His pants are fitted well enough that no skin shows, though his bollocks make a soft pouch in the fabric.  Bond turns to focus on the calf.

There’s more tension here, too, but it’s a different sort, the kind of coiled anticipation that comes when a client is growing aroused and unwilling to let it show.  That’s not the case here—they both know Adam’s cock is beginning to lift its way to a full erection, even if they’re both pretending not to notice—but it takes gentle teasing at the muscles for the flight reflex to fade, for Adam’s hips to fall open and lax and pliable.  Bond presses one firm hand on the inner thigh to steady as he tackles the outer muscles, and Adam makes a soft, reedy sound.  There’s a spot on his pants growing damp and dark with desire.

Bond laughs quietly at the frustrated sound when he jumps from thigh to hand, but when he scratches at the palm again, firm and gentle and taunting, Adam goes quiet, obedient.  Gooseflesh prickles up the length of that long, pale arm, and his nipples harden though the room is growing, frankly, a little overwarm.  He’s biddable now, moving easily with only the slightest touches, switching arms for Bond at a gesture, eyes hooded and mouth wet.  

Adam is biddable, soft and languorous and slow, and Bond leans in close, lets his breath move the curls at his ear until he squirms at the sensation.  “The pants are in the way.”  He wants to know what Adam will do; he doesn’t disappoint.   Adam shifts onto one elbow, fingers searching, and then he’s tugging the fabric down over his hips, baring sharp hipbones and a generous tangle of pubic hair and—Bond grabs a towel, coughing as he holds it over Adam’s hips as he wriggles out of the pants and drops them on the floor.  He’s averted his eyes, but not fast enough to unsee a few inches of flushed, ruddy skin.  And the towel—it’s the smallest—it must be a fucking hand towel—smallest towel known to man and god.  Tented, lifted, barely covering, and Bond can’t stop the hand he sees himself stretch as if having an out of body experience to adjust the fall of terry cloth over Adam’s hip.  Adam’s upper thighs are milky pale, the skin nearly translucent, Bond notes idly, as if that will take his attention away from the way the head of Adam’s cock is trying to peek out.

“Turn over,” he says hoarsely, and guides him to turn away.  He can’t look at that; the temptation would swallow him whole.

Adam’s arse is pretty, fat and shapely and entirely incongruous with the rest of him.  Plush, he’d say, and the towel covers but does little to disguise the shape of it.  He picks at the fabric carefully to tug it down to cover more; there is a dark, secret hollow at the tops of Adam’s thighs that calls for his touch like a beacon, but he shakes his wrists to limber up and puts his palms on the small of Adam’s back.  His waist is small and Bond can easily wrap his fingers around the edges of his hips where he is taut and waiting.  He digs his fingertips in and Adam rolls with him, riding forward in his hands like a lover.  This time they both groan.

“You’ve got the sweetest fucking arse,” Bond murmurs, and the moment he says it—the moment before, as he thinks it—he knows it’s too far.  Adam stills beneath his hands.  Then, just as deliberately, he bucks into Bond’s waiting palms.  “Fuck,” Bond hisses, low and rough.  “Fuck.”  His thumbs are on the bottom curve of Adam’s arse, fingers clamping the towel down as if it might get away but thumbs—thumbs touching places they shouldn’t.  He flexes his hands and Adam’s arse spreads, just a bit, beneath the towel.  He can see the back of his bollocks in the shadow between his thighs, and Bond pulls his thumbs apart again, spreads him again, further and more deliberate.

“Please,” Adam whispers.  He clears his throat, and says again, louder, “Please.”

Bond’s grin goes wide.   He lifts his hands away, ignoring Adam’s soft cry of displeasure; when he returns with freshly slicked hands, Adam all but purrs.  The skin of his arse is delicate, thin and white, and Bond teases the edge of the towel up and up and up in slow increments until Adam is squirming, rocking into the table.  Each thrust of his hips flexes his toes, his ankles, his knees, creates dimples in the hollows of his arse cheeks and tightens the muscles of his thighs in uneven bursts as he ruts.  His body is gorgeous, and Bond can’t not encourage and reward such enthusiasm; he trips his fingers down the crease of his arse to the cleft, rubs slipping fingers in until he finds what he’s looking for: the crimped edges of his arsehole, already somewhat relaxed and all too eager to let him rub against it, trying to draw him in as he strokes.  He points, makes his finger rigid, and Adam sinks himself onto it with a grateful little sigh.

“Gorgeous boy,” Bond groans, and Adam gives a happy little wriggle, finally speared on his finger and already ready for more.  Bond agrees—he wants to see that arse stuffed full and sated—and adds another, stroking into the heat of him with slow, steady thrusts.  He knows it’s not quite enough, and soon Adam is pushing himself back, fucking himself on Bond’s hand enthusiastically and making the most incredible little sounds, wounded and breathy and pleading.

“Fuck.”  And that sweet, cultured voice with its posh RP and crisp vowels—it’s shattered.  Hungry, like the hole that’s clenched around him, taut as his body is as he lifts himself off the table into Bond’s palm until his skin is making sticky smacks at the contact.  Bond lets him, admiring the stretch of him around his knuckles, then stills him gently with his free hand so he can ease another finger in.  Adam shakes, whining, and now Bond has a decision to make.

He wants to fuck this boy.  Wants, more than anything, to pull his aching cock out now and slide it through the sheen of sweat at the base of his spine before tipping it in and sliding to the root in one slow thrust.  Only he doesn’t have—his hands slip slick with lotion frictionless over the drawer pull as he tugs it open, fishing for—ah!  There—a familiar box.  One.  There’s one condom in the box, and Bond simultaneously curses and thanks the gods.  Adam watches him curiously as he comes back to the table where he lies and puts the condom before him.

“I—” Adam starts, brow knitting.

“I only have one,” Bond tells him.  “The way I see it, we’ve got three options.  One: I can keep fingering you, stuff you up with my fingers and rub you until you come, and then I can wear it while you give me head.  I like that option—I like the thought of you squirming around my fingers.  I like the thought of feeling you come.”  He watches Adam’s eyes dilate at that.  He watches his lips part.  “Two: I can put it on you—I can suck you off.  I can hold you down and lick your cock, or you can hold my hair and fuck my face.  I’d rut your leg like a dog, come begging at your feet.  I’d feel you in my throat for days after.”  Or.  Or—“Three: I can fuck you.  I want to fuck you.  I want to hold you tight by the hips and sink my cock into you, watch your body eat it up and beg for more, fuck you hard enough your legs will shake and you’ll have to hold on or fall over.  I can fuck you until you’re pleading and you’re desperate.  I want to fuck you.”

Adam’s throat clicks when he swallows; Bond fetches him a glass of water and watches him drink it slowly.  He’s thinking; he can almost see the tremendous cogs at work.  When the water’s gone, Adam sits, contemplating the glass.  There’s no hiding the cherry jut of his cock, so red and tender-looking.  He peers up at Bond through his lashes, coy and sweet.  “Fuck me.  Please fuck me.”

“Oh, god,” Bond mutters as he sinks into Adam’s arms for a kiss.  His lips are soft, friendly, clinging sweet and slow and earnest to his own with tiny, lingering, sucking pulls.  Adam winds his arms around Bond’s neck and pulls him in, holding him near enough that he can steal kisses one after another, quick and dirty and enthusiastic.  “God, god,” Bond gasps into his mouth an Adam laughs.

“‘Q’ will do,” he corrects, and Bond chuckles—he’s already forgot he’s called himself Adam.  It’s not a real name either, but it feels more real than ‘Adam’ ever did.  Bond likes it better.

“Q,” he confirms in a low rush, tipping Q back against the table before wrapping a hand around his cock.  He’d like to suck, but he can’t—not with only one condom; he won’t risk it—so he settles for sucking lovebites into the pale flat of his abdomen as he strokes Q off, rubbing firm over Q’s cock until Q’s curling, pushing him away and panting, legs shuddering.

“Don’t you dare!” Q threatens breathlessly, and Bond laughs, letting himself be drawn into another kiss.  “I want it,” Q whines reaching down to palm him through his cotton trousers.  “Your cock.  Don’t you dare fetch me off with your hand when you could put that lovely thing in me.”

“You think I wouldn’t do it anyway if you came first?  You’d be so relaxed and come-drunk,” Bond tells him, and Q’s lashes dip with the thought.

“I want to come on your cock,” he says instead, and.  Yes, Bond can arrange that.  Q is pliant, a good boy as Bond rolls him on the table, bending him over the side.  His arse is just the right height, and even through the latex he’s warm and elastic around Bond’s cock.  He’s perfect, perfect, and made for fucking.

“You beautiful—” Bond sighs, and beneath him, Q shudders, back arched and pressing against Bond’s front as Bond pushes in and draws out again.  “Hng!” he grunts, and Q makes a similar sound, bumping back until his arse meets Bond’s hips with a slap.

“Fuck,” Q whines.  The word draws out like caramel, stretched and long and sugary, and when Bond fucks into him again it breaks, brittle and crisp and sharp.  “Fuck!”

“That’s the name of it, darling,” Bond teases, and Q huffs with quiet laughter.

“You’re an—” Q breaks off with a gasp, fingers curling into overwhelmed knots.  “Oh, god.”

They’re quiet then, the room filled with the smack of skin on skin and Q’s soft, sweet cries.  He shakes in Bond’s arms when Bond speeds up, grunting as the force bends him further until he’s resting on the table and Bond is fucking him with hard, decisive thrusts.  His skin gleams with traces of the cream and Bond’s shirt is dotted with it, stained in places where he’s pressed against Q’s lithe, slippery body.  Bond ducks his head to kiss along the line of Q’s shoulder, clutches his hips tighter, and pulls him back, jerking Q back to meet his thrusts until Q’s voice grows loud and helpless and he drops an arm between his belly and the table to touch himself.  Bond lets him have a few strokes before pulling his hand away; Q’s hips jerk into the fist that’s not there and Bond groans, shushing his impatient whine with a careful bite to the nape.  He fills Q’s hand with lube—too much lube, enough that it trails down his wrist in runnels—and sighs at the wet, wet sound of his hand resuming.  There’s wet everywhere—he’ll be cleaning for hours later, but it’s worth it for the way he watches over Q’s shoulder as the curls of Q’s pubic hair go dark and shining with it, for the sounds his skin makes as he slides his soaked and dripping hand up the length of his cock and for the way his mouth falls open in wonder at the sensation.

“Oh,” Bond tells him, lips pressed to his ear.  “Oh, darling.  Do you like it?  Being so wet?  There’s no friction, is there?  You could just fuck into your fist as I’m fucking into you, so easy and smooth and tight.  Hot.  Wet.”

“Yes,” Q tells him, and Bond drops a hand to his lap, curls it around his fist on his cock, and pulls him faster.  “Yes,” Q says again.  His chest is heaving for breath.  “Yes, yes.”

Bond feels the moment Q begins to come, his arse tightening around him in rippling waves as he jerks erratically, mouth open in a rictus of pleasure.  There’s a sharp squeaking sound and the tension that’s been building suddenly melts; Q falls against the table and Bond can see the streaks of come on its shining chrome.  He’s still twitching, spasming with aftershocks that clench and milk Bond when that sweet bright splash of feeling comes over him; the condom pushes the warm rush of his come back up around Bond’s cock as he fills it, shuddering, inside Q’s body.  He’s still for a moment before gingerly easing himself out of Q’s prone form.  Q doesn’t move, just hums with satisfaction and makes a halfhearted grab for his hand, pulling it in to suck at his fingers.  Bond’s cock gives a twitch of overstimulation and Q laughs breathlessly when he pulls his hand away to stroke over Q’s sweaty hair.  He’s boneless, the picture of spoiled leisure as Bond carefully cleans himself up with the abandoned towel.

“Hm,” Q purrs luxuriously on the table, still bent over it limp and wet as a melted ice lolly.  “I feel quite relaxed now.”

“You little hedonist,” Bond accuses playfully.  “A massage and a fuck and you’re all gooey.”

“Completely worthless for the rest of the day,” Q agrees.  He stands, prying himself up from the table reluctantly, and pulls a face; he’s got come streaked nearly to his throat and he’s slick all over.  “Christ, you’re better than my regular fellow.”

“I’d hope so,” Bond murmurs, leaning in to steal a kiss.  “I’ll be disappointed to find out you’ve been fucking Pete, too.”

“Insecure,” Q teases, wrapping his arms around Bond’s neck languidly.  

“Come on, tart.  I’ll run you a bath; you can’t hang about the flat all day like that,” Bond says, already collapsing the portable massage table for storage in the cupboard.  “Though it’s a good look for you, covered in come,” he adds almost idly.  Q grins.

“You’re a dirty one,” Q says.

“I did have my fingers up your arse,” Bond reminds him mildly.  

“Mm,” Q agrees.  “Yes, you did.  It was wonderful.”

“I’m glad you enjoyed it.”

“Of course.  I liked the part where you pretended to put your fingers up a perfect stranger’s bum.”  Q’s eyes twinkle at that, and Bond laughs, wrapping him up in an embrace.  He’s so lazy and soft now, relaxed in a way Bond rarely gets to see him.

“I liked the part where you pretended to let a stranger put his fingers up your arse,” Bond retorts, and Q laughs brightly.

“Didn’t we both!”

Later, in the bath, Q sleepily splashes at Bond’s chest with warm, soapy water.  “So, what, are we pretending to fuck other people now?”

“No.”  Bond scrubs the flannel over his heat-pink skin.

“No?”

“No,” Bond tells him, and Q sinks in with a relaxed sigh as he starts to nibble at his nape.

“Best spa day ever.”

**Author's Note:**

> The situational dub-con comes from the assumption that Bond and Q are strangers, and that Q has sought Bond out for professional medical treatment, creating a power imbalance that prohibits true consent. However, later in the story it is revealed that Bond and Q are performing sexual role play, that the intent of the scene was always consensual sex, and that there is no true power imbalance. As mentioned above, this fic in no way represents the reality of an actual visit with a massage therapist, and should not be used as a description thereof.


End file.
